The Best Way to Drink Whiskey
by aiiXael
Summary: France isn't quite sure why he decided it was a good idea, but he ends up accompanying England to a tavern. Despite everything, it doesn't end quite as badly as he originally thought.


It was a typical night in the dimly lit tavern. Raucous laughter and the loud din of gambles, grievances and proclamations of love filled the room to the brink in a way that not even the dozens of bodies packed like sardines could. The smell of sweat and booze, vomit and the hint of sea water permeated the air, creating a nauseous combination—one didn't have to be drunk to be sick from it. Combined with the heat, it was a deadly blend.

And yet, it was England's favorite pub.

"'Nother," the rather drunk englishman muttered, downing the rest of his whiskey. Despite the word being in English, it slid from his lips so mixed up and garbled it could hardly be recognized as anything but a wounded half-dead thing. Luckily, the barkeep seemed to understand what he wanted-though it might have had something to do with the dirty glass being shoved in his face—and poured more of the toxic liquid, trying not to roll his eyes.

Yes, a typical night indeed.

France still was uncertain why he had chosen to accompany England on his little tavern trip tonight, other than the fact that he didn't want his on-again off-again friend to get picked up by a sleazy drunk. Not that he thought anyone would want him, of course. It was just a precaution. But the entire building was anything but what France preferred; loud and smelly and sticky—all-together unpleasant. They didn't even have good alcohol, if their wine was anything to go by.

Though he could hardly call the watered down liquid in his glass wine.

"_Angleterre_, I think you have had enough, _oui_? Perhaps we could relocate to somewhere, ah… a little less busy?" he asked, trying to keep his voice reasonable. But with the glare England shot him, he might has well have asked him to go have sexual relations with a goat.

"No. Yer stayin' 'ere. Is a damn good pub, y' bloo'y frog," England gestured, liquid sloshing from the glass and down his hand, soaking into his sleeve of his shirt. "Jus' gotta get some taste 's all."

"Of course, but I believe this is the problem," France muttered, nose twitching in disgust. "I_ have_ taste, and this certainly is not it. This wine tastes more like piss than anything else."

England gave him a look, glancing down at the pale wine in France's glass, trying to put the words together in his head. His brows furrowed, almost comically. It made him look somewhat like a raccoon, and the French nation had to suppress a chuckle. "Shouldn' be," England said, scowling at the other. France waited for him to continue, but when a minute went by and England turned away putting the glass to his lips once more, he assumed that there was going to be no response.

"_Non_? Shouldn't be what, _ma Angletere_? Be in this filthy place to begin with?"

"Nay," England shifted his eyes back, green fields caught behind watery glass. Yes, France decided. The man was complete and utterly sloshed. How wonderful. "Be drinkin' wine. Dun know nothin'. Wine ain't fer pubs, y'idiot. Drink _real_ 'lcohol 'ere." He grinned then, shaking his glass as a point to what 'real alcohol' was. Whiskey sloshed once again over the sides of the glass, spilling more on the counter this time.

"And you call your whiskey real alcohol? I believe you have even less taste than I thought, _mon cher_."

England cocked his head to the side, the grin still half on his face, leaning back. Despite nearly tumbling off the stool, he made an interesting sight. The look he was giving France seemed familiar—almost like those he gave in his pirate days. It was a look France had hoped never to see again.

"Y'eva try it?"

"_Non_, but I can certainly smell it well enough," France scrunched his nose up again. "And it smells worse than _mon vin._"

"Try it."

"Non, I do not wish to poison myself, not even for you, _Angleterre_."

"'S not poisonin', y'git," England replied, with another rather impressive scowl. "'S good drink."

"You also say your scones are good; I think we have already proven that you have no taste."

"Tosser," England glowered, but it appeared he was going to let this subject go, putting the glass to his lips and pulling the whiskey in question in. France was almost proud of the Brit for being able to drop a subject. But he didn't say anything, turning back to his glass of wine, rubbing at one of the smudges on the red-stained glass.

It really was quite a terrible bar if they couldn't even keep their glasses clean.

His thoughts on dirty glasses and piss-poor wine left him when England grabbed his jaw, forcing their mouths together in a motion he'd never do sober and would rarely even do drunk. It wasn't so much the kiss that bothered the Frenchman, but more the forcefulness of it, and he raised a hand, to shove the Brit back a little. England didn't listen, only pushing more forcefully, working to part France's lips until he finally gave in and kissed back.

But only until he felt the harsh burn of whiskey fill his mouth, and then he had to focus on swallowing or having the liquid drip everywhere. As it was, several droplets slid from his lips, and down his chin.

The alcohol burned rather pleasantly, mixing with the heat of England's mouth. It wasn't something he'd normally drink, the burn far too strong for his tastes. But despite that, it wasn't all-together unenjoyable either. But that might have something to do with the way it was being served. He might even have appreciated his wine, if he'd been able to drink it in such a way.

His fingers curled in England's hair as he swept his tongue along the other's lips cleaning off the leftover liquid, before delving into his mouth, making quite certain that he'd gotten every last drop. It was easy to ignore the burn and the slight irritation, when focusing on such a pleasant task. And a task that England not only let him do, but helped in whole-heartedly, sliding their tongues together until it wasn't so much a task any longer as much as a slightly sloppy kiss.

After a few moments of pressing tongues and gentle heat, England pulled back and licked his lips. His eyes were half closed, still glassy, but more amused now than anything else. Amused and… maybe a little bit pleased with himself.

"So?"

A smile twitched up the corners of France's mouth.

"_Encore une."_

Maybe England's pub wasn't so bad after all.


End file.
